The Guardian

THE GUARDIAN

Bill Eidson

Copyright © 1996 by Bill Eidson.

Published by E-Reads. All rights reserved.

www.ereads.com

For my mother, Mary C. Eidson

Acknowledgments

I would like to thank the following people for their help and encouragement: Donna Eidson, Bill Eidson, Sr., Catherine Sinkys, Frank Robinson, Richard Parks, David Hartwell, Tad Dembinski, Paul DiPaolo, Rick Berry, and Steve Bentley.

Chapter 1

You’re sure you want to wear that beret?” Greg said to his daughter as they walked into the convenience store.

A bell jingled over the door, and Greg nodded to the owner, a round-faced man wearing a white apron who smiled back.

“Yup,” Janine said, hopping up to look at her reflection in a sunglasses display mirror. “Looks good.”

Behind them, Beth laughed quietly. “Give it up, Greg. You know your brother gave it to her.”

Greg went along with it. “Oh, well, if Ross gave it to you, I wouldn’t expect you to part with it at least until … high school. How about then?”

Janine giggled, shaking her head. She was nine. “College. Maybe.”

He reached under the beret and mussed her hair, and she leaned back into him and elbowed him lightly in the belly. “Stop.”

The two of them headed toward the ice-cream freezer in the back while Beth went for milk and bread. Janine immediately pulled open the freezer door and started pointing to different flavors: “Chocolate Supreme … no, Heath Bar Crunch …”

“Keep the door closed until you decide.” Greg thought to himself that so much of raising his daughter involved saying the same kinds of things at similar times: “Are you hungry?” “Are you too hot?” “Too cold?” “Put your sweater on.”

“Close the door,” he repeated.

Greg felt the slightest twinge of jealousy over how she’d taken to his younger brother, now that he was back. Ross was definitely the exciting new man in her life, while Greg was just Dad.

Comfortable.

That’s how he envisioned she saw him. He didn’t feel that way himself, God knows, with his worries about his business and money.

Greg watched his daughter’s lips move slightly as she read the different flavors, her eyes flickering from label to label. He felt the warmth that was already there intensify and trickle through him like balm. Knowing that she was about to turn … which she did, right then.

“Rocky Road.” She nodded, decision made. Janine had her mother’s dark hair and blue eyes.

Greg was faintly aware of the bell jingling again behind him.

“You’re sure?”

Janine’s eyes widened, and she looked past him.

Greg turned around, and felt like he’d just been punched in the stomach.

Two men with guns had just walked in the store.

“Oh my God, oh my God,” the man at the counter was saying. “Don’t do this. You don’t need to do this—”

“Shut up!” the bigger of the two yelled. They were both wearing ski masks, green flak jackets. The smaller one was wearing tight black jeans, and Greg realized abstractedly that it was a woman. Greg stood in front of his daughter. His thinking became very clear. He told himself that all they wanted was money and what he had to do was keep his family out of it.

Out of it.

Beth. He looked up the end of the aisle to his left and saw her standing there, frozen, too. She was pale, and nodded to him slightly. She raised her finger to her lips, for Janine.

Greg felt an incremental amount better. They were in sync. Shut up and let this pass.

“The register. Now, you fat fuck.” The man’s voice was hoarse.

Greg saw the man’s arm out of his sleeve was white. He was wearing cotton gloves. High leather boots, steel toes. No insignia on the flak jacket.

“We’ve got snoops, here,” the woman said, and Greg realized with dismay she was looking right at him. Their ski masks were the same: screaming red faces on black.

“No,” Greg said. “Just go. We didn’t see anything.”

“Shit!” The gunman marched down the aisle, his sawed-off shotgun at hip level. “You nosy bastard, I’ll chop you into hamburger.”

“Let them alone, please!” the store owner called. “Just take the money and go!”

The gunman was big, easily as tall as Greg. He shifted so he could see Janine. Greg felt her press against his back.

“It’s a whole goddamn brood, here.” The gunman jabbed Greg in the chest. “What the hell are you looking at?”

“No. No, I didn’t see anything.” Greg’s voice sounded amazingly calm to himself. “Look, please leave us alone. You can have what money I’ve got. You can take my car. But just leave us alone.”

The gunman jabbed the barrel into Greg’s mouth, splitting his lip. “Shut up! I know what I can take, and what I can’t. All of you, up front. Take your wallets out and put them on the counter.”

He backed up the aisle and Beth and Greg followed, Janine between them. Greg looked down at her once they got to the front of the store and saw she was looking at his split lip, at the blood on his shirt. A rage swept through him. How dare they scare his daughter like that?

She was trying not to make any noise. He patted her head. “We’ll be all right, sweetheart.” Greg laid his wallet on the counter and Beth did the same. He laid his keys beside them, and as a final gesture, he slid off his watch, a gift from Beth.

The gunman held the sawed-off on his hip, then picked up the car keys. He glanced outside. “So that BMW is yours, huh?” He turned toward the woman. “I always wanted a BMW. How about you?”

“I always wanted a BMW,” she repeated, her voice dead.

The man ran through Greg’s wallet with one hand quickly and pulled out the cash and the driver’s license. He whistled as he slid the license into his back pocket. “You live in Lincoln, huh? Nice town. Nice-looking wife there. Nice kid. You must be rich, huh?”

“No.”

“Oh, yeah, you must be. You must be so rich, you forgot.” He placed the gun back against Greg’s chest and leaned into it, looking down at Janine. “How about you, little girl? Do you know what rich is?”

Greg felt himself grow cold. He said, “Take the stuff and go.”

The man ignored him, and continued on with Janine. “Maybe you can show me. Maybe you can help me.”

Greg could feel her pressing up against him more tightly, and could feel his wife’s eyes. He pushed Janine back gently and tried to catch the man’s eyes through that mask. “Leave her alone.”

The man took his time, cocking his head slightly, so he could see Janine cowering behind Greg. Then he looked back up, slowly. “I don’t want to.”

Greg went for the gun.

He didn’t think he was a hero. He didn’t think he was brave. He didn’t think at all. Down to his very fiber, Greg simply knew he needed to get that gun away.

But Janine had grabbed at his legs again, and he stumbled. The gunman delivered two powerful blows with the shortened stock, one to Greg’s mouth, the other right over his ear. And then the gunman whirled and shot the store owner in the face.

Beth screamed as Greg fell onto his back. And though he fought to get to his feet, to drag himself up against the counter, his arms and legs seemed without bone. He was distantly aware that the woman had sagged against the counter, too, her gun turned away from them. The gunman stepped over and hit Beth as she tried to help her husband.

Janine was left standing. She couldn’t get her breath in to cry; she was too shocked.

“Take her,” the gunman said, and the woman came back to life. She scooped Janine up and started for the door.

“No!” Beth grabbed at her daughter’s foot. The woman kicked Beth away, and the gunman bent down and punched her in the stomach, knocking the breath out of her. He turned to Greg and cracked him across the face. “Pay attention, you. This is all you’re gonna get, so you better listen.”

“Please—”

“Shut up! I’ve got your address. I’ve got your daughter. You try to follow us, I’ll kill her. You call the police, I’ll kill her. You do what I say, I’ll return her safe. So, what you do now is you count to fifteen after I leave, and then walk out of the store, and drive home. There’s no witnesses to screw you up. I’ll call sometime soon with a nice round number.”

Greg shook his head, trying to clear the momentary paralysis, get past the horror of the words coming through the gap in the black cloth, the moving yellow teeth. The man tossed Greg’s keys and wallet onto the countertop. “This has been my lucky day. Tomorrow can be your little girl’s if you do what I tell you.”

Chapter 2

Ross figured he would spend the night inside the house for a change. He’d passed the last couple on the beach, wrapped in an old blanket. The sand in his hair and the stiffness of his back was a small price to pay for the ability to look up anytime, two, three in the morning, and see the stars.

Not that he saw his destiny there, or even spent much time contemplating his personal significance in the scheme of things, or lack thereof. He was just happy not to see Crockett’s leg hanging out of the top bunk, his sock half off his foot. Happy not to breathe the humid, pent-up air of too many people in too small a space. Not to wake up to the reality of being a screwup of the worst kind … a prison inmate.

No, as Ross tacked the top rail of the deck with a couple of finishing nails, he figured he was ready for the old place, and it was reasonably ready for him. Under the glow of his battery- powered work light, he put the level on the railing and was pleased to see the bubble neatly between the lines.

It was a small accomplishment, but it made him smile. Perhaps it was the location, too, standing on the deck again, smelling the salt air. He switched off the work light. Fifty feet below, the crashing waves reflected white in the moonlight. The house was positioned on the northern tip of the deepwater cove. The moon was big and fat that night, making the cove alive with light.

Two months out, Ross still wasn’t used to having this kind of view available to him alone. He felt drunk on it, more so than he had on the bottle of cognac he’d found in the cupboard the night before. He’d downed almost half the bottle just for the sake of being able to do it.

He saw the open bottle on the living room table next to the kerosene lantern, and made a mental note to put the liquor away. He didn’t want Beth looking at him with that slightly worried expression he seemed to inspire.

He looked around the beach house critically. She and Greg would be pleased. Ross had freshly painted the interior and almost finished rewiring the house. The smoke-damaged furniture hadn’t been salvageable, and he’d tossed it all. And he’d finished shingling the roof, had the blisters to prove it. The deck floorboards were entirely new—that’s where the fire had started.

Apparently, some beach kids must’ve found the stone fireplace inside the house too inconvenient or constraining. The fire marshal had told Greg they were lucky the whole place hadn’t been gutted.

Ross thought back to when he was a teenager and tried to remember if he would have done that. Certainly, he’d had more than his share of late-night races with a series of fast cars. He hadn’t been what he’d call a responsible kid. But he had never set a house on fire for fun.

Ross shivered suddenly. The night was still warm, but, unaccountably, some of his euphoria began to tick away. He looked down the water crashing against the rocks below and found himself thinking about the changes since those days, the wrong turns. Married and divorced by twenty-four, imprisoned a year after that. Hell of a record by his thirtieth birthday. There was a core of melancholy always beneath the surface, knowing that five years had been permanently stripped out of his life. The stigma of being seen as a drug smuggler.

And now he and Greg were thinking about breaking at least half the cove into four smaller parcels to sell off for private homes. Ross looked back in the direction of the beach and inhaled deeply. He told himself the tang of the salt air would still be as sharp. That they were committed to doing the job right, to not overselling the place. That they would still be retaining the best of the place for Janine … and his own kids, if he ever got his life together enough to get married again and have them.